Both Sides Now
by Lawson227
Summary: Carlton notices that Juliet's distracted. In getting her to open up, they both make some startling confessions. SPOILER ALERT for ep. 6.02, "Last Night Gus."
1. Chapter 1

Both Sides Now

Don't own _**psych**_. Can't even pretend to, unfortunately. So just a little playtime in the sandbox and no infringement intended against TPTB.

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><p>"What the hell's eating you, O'Hara?"<p>

"Hm?" Juliet glanced up from the computer screen to find Lassiter seated at the edge of his desk, rubbing the last remnants of purple paint from his hands. Not that there had been much there in the first place—he was the only man she knew who could paint a giant donut man while wearing a full suit and come out the other side with nothing more than a smudge or two of paint on his hand. She shuddered to think what Shawn would've looked like had he taken on the task. Come to think of it, she shuddered to think what Bobo the Donut Man would've looked like after Shawn got done with him.

"You've been sitting there, staring at your screen for the last half hour and don't tell me you've been working because you haven't typed a damned word nor have you scrolled past the page you're currently on."

She blinked, glancing from Lassiter, to the screen, and back to Lassiter again. Damn. With Shawn around, people tended to forget how very, _very_ good Carlton was at his job. Maybe he wasn't possessed of Shawn's preternatural skills, but truth be known, it made Carlton's minute observations that much more impressive. Pity so few people ever noticed anymore. Then again, for all of his love of recognition for a job well done, she also knew he preferred that those kudos come at the end, when the job was actually, well… done.

"O'Hara?"

She blinked again, wondering how he'd crossed the distance between their desks so stealthily, when she could swear she'd been looking at him the entire time.

"All right, that's it." He reached into the bottom drawer of her desk, grabbed her purse, and thrust it into her hands. She only had just enough time to sling it over her shoulder before he was grasping her by the elbow and leading her out of the station.

"Carlton, what—?"

"You're not getting anything done, I'm already done with my work, it's the end of the day and I don't know about you, but I need a drink."

"It's not the end of the day—" she began protesting, only to feel the words die in her throat as they walked past the big clock in the entry. The big clock that read 6:05. Somehow, someway, she'd completely lost more than three hours. "Okay, _fine_." she said with a sigh. "But no drinking. You've gotten in enough trouble this week via alcohol."

"Fair enough." He guided her into the passenger seat of his recently recovered Fusion. Silently, he drove, away from downtown, with only a quick pause at a Starbucks drive through, until he finally turned into the parking lot of one of the less populated beachfront parks. Far enough away that the likelihood of them running into anyone they knew was close to nonexistent.

Seated on a wooden bench, they sipped their coffee, content to watch the gulls wheel overhead, swooping in huge arcs toward the nearby marina, in hopes of stealing scraps from the fishermen's boats. Their demanding caws rose and fell in counterpoint to the muted crash of the waves washing ashore, lending a uniquely intimate air to the nearly deserted beach. It was so easy to be quiet with Carlton, she thought. While he tolerated and maybe even enjoyed her ability to talk about any and everything, she was well aware he was equally satisfied with quiet. There was no need for her to be on go mode all the time just to feel as if she was keeping up with him.

"So Spencer asked you to move in with him."

She wasn't surprised that he knew. "Did he tell you?"

Carlton shook his head, expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. "McNab overheard him and Guster talking about it at the donut shop. He then felt the need to share since he's apparently worse than my Aunt Matilda at keeping confidences. Old battle-axe even managed to find out about the first time I ever—" He stopped abruptly.

"What?"

"Never mind. Suffice it to say, it was something exceedingly personal she felt the need to share. At the Thanksgiving table. So—" He took a sip of coffee, still appearing to stare out toward the horizon, yet Juliet couldn't shake the feeling that his shaded gaze was actually focused on her.

"Remember what I said about getting into enough trouble via alcohol?"

"Ah." Carlton nodded in understanding. "So he didn't really mean it."

"He meant it as much as he's capable of, I guess." She shrugged.

"Which is to say he meant it in the moment then once he realized the potential ramifications, freaked out and talked his way out of it in a way that was in turns, earnest, honest, and thoroughly inappropriate."

See? Exceptionally observant and no one ever gave him the credit for it. "Pretty much." Suddenly tired of talking about Shawn and somewhat fearful of what other observations Carlton might make, she turned her attention to him, swiftly pulling off his sunglasses.

"Hey—"

He made a grab for the shades, futile, since she had already tucked them behind herself and the only way for him to get them would be to grope her in a fairly unseemly manner. A sudden thought flitted into her mind that that might not be such a bad thing, startling her with its intensity, before dissipating as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her, "Shut up Carlton," sounding more than a little breathless.

Shaking off the odd sensation, she grasped his chin, holding on more firmly when he tried to pull away. "Let me look, okay?"

"Fine." He stilled, glaring past her shoulder as she studied the purplish-green skin surrounding his eye and across his cheekbone. "I'm okay, you know," he grumbled, half under his breath.

She glanced over the tender skin with gentle fingertips, taking in his slight hiss and recoil. "It's still swollen." Not to mention, more than a little bloodshot, angry red capillaries snaking along the white of the eye and dulling the normally brilliant blue to a more subdued grayish hue.

"Well, I didn't exactly have time to ice it down in the immediate aftermath. Hell, I didn't even know _when_ the immediate aftermath was until hours later." His drawn out sigh left a warm trail across her hand, making her shiver as it met with the cooler breeze coming off the ocean.

"Well, ice isn't going to do a damned bit of good now, but I know something that will."

That dark, telltale eyebrow rose. "What?"

"Come on." She started to rise but froze as she felt Carlton reaching behind her, his arm brushing against the backs of her legs. A moment later, the sensation was gone as he straightened, sunglasses in hand.

"Glad you didn't sit on them, O'Hara." His voice was gruff as he slipped the glasses back on and grabbed both of their empty coffee cups. She sighed quietly, reminding herself yet again what a contained man Carlton was—a man who didn't take kindly to having his personal space invaded, although again, as with the talking, he tended to be fairly tolerant with her. Once back in his car, she directed him to take her home, meeting his sunglasses shaded stare with a direct one of her own.

"It's getting late," he finally said. "Don't you have plans?" His voice was clipped and precise as usual, but the question still contained a distinct feel of trailing off, the implication clear.

"No." She didn't feel any real need to elaborate further and thankfully, Carlton didn't feel any real need to probe further, accepting her answer at face value. He'd either make of it what he would or he'd ask her if he felt the need. She suspected he might—after all, he hadn't probed any further beyond that single question about Shawn and she knew him well enough to know that he wasn't really leaving it there. He was just gathering the available information and formulating his next query.

Question was, what would she say in response?

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><p>Carlton sat on Juliet's sofa and watched as she moved around her kitchen, assembling whatever concoction she insisted would help his eye. He didn't really need anything—God knows, he'd suffered far worse over the years, but tending to him seemed to be distracting her from whatever had preoccupied her the majority of the day. Scratch that, make that <em>who<em>ever. Spencer.

A frustrated breath escaped as he weighed whether or not this latest stunt constituted grounds for discharging his pistol. Probably not. If only because while Juliet had seemed distracted, she didn't seem particularly… upset. That's what it was, he realized. Ever since McNab had blabbed, he'd kept looking for signs that she was hurt or upset or disappointed and had seen nothing. If anything, she'd seemed more reflective and perhaps resigned. An emotion that matched his own, really. Shawn _had_ helped a great deal on this case—had helped _him__—_and the thought of emptying his pistol's magazine didn't fill him with the usual calm glee. Although had Juliet seemed genuinely hurt or upset, the question would've been moot. The magazine would've been emptied and Spencer would've been left whimpering like a little girl.

"All right, this is ready," She came into the living room, carrying a small covered dish that she set on the coffee table. "I just need you to relax."

He glanced up at her. "I am relaxed."

She crossed her arms and fixed him with an icy blue glare. "Normal people relaxed, not Carlton Lassiter relaxed."

"Hey!"

"Hey, yourself. Look, you spent a good chunk of yesterday without your jacket and all of it without your tie. That's all I'm asking." Her eyebrows rose. "Oh, and you'll have to take off your holster, too."

"Oh, come _on_, O'Hara—"

"My house, my rules."

"Why am I here again?" he muttered, even as he began removing his jacket, followed by his tie, handing them to a waiting Juliet, who neatly hung them in her hall closet.

"Because I asked." Her reply, just above a whisper and spoken into the depths of the closet might have escaped anyone else. But over the past several years Carlton had found that he was uniquely attuned to the sound of his partner's voice—to the multitudes of shades and tones that colored it and revealed her moods almost more than facial expressions or body language.

With a deep breath, he slipped off the holster and gun and placed it into her waiting hands, watching as she carefully set it on the out of the way yet easily accessible table next to her own weapon.

"Now, lie down." She patted the throw pillows she'd arranged at one end of the sofa—clearly, he was meant to put his head there and judging by the expression on her face, if he didn't do it voluntarily, she was liable to physically flip him onto the sofa and pin him into place.

_And would that be such a bad thing?_

Alarmed, he quickly lay down, steeling himself against the sudden fist of tension that had grabbed hold, deep in his gut. "Now what?" he asked, wincing inwardly at the lower than usual note in his voice.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit… now is not the time and she is most definitely not the woman. No matter what you think. Or want._

"Close your eyes."

Every instinct he possessed was rebelling against the request—not just because it would rob him of a most valuable sense, but more importantly, it would leave him vulnerable. But of all the people in the world whom he trusted, and _those_ he could count on the fingers of one hand, she was the one he trusted most. Relaxing slightly, he let his eyes drift shut completely, keeping in his mind's eye the vision of her leaning over him, a gentle smile on her face. Moments later, he felt something cool being placed over his bruised eye.

"It's a tea bag," she murmured, so damned close, he could feel her warm breath teasing the rim of his ear, the soft ends of her hair skimming his cheek. "The tannins in the leaves help to shrink blood vessels and reduce the swelling. I always save my tea bags and keep them in the fridge for this purpose. Given that we do seem to acquire our fair share of bruises on the job." With his vision obscured, he was that much more sensitive to her voice, hearing both laughter and resignation and further down, something more. Something exceedingly soothing that was echoed in the touch of her hands as her fingertips began massaging his temples where a low-grade headache had throbbed since the horrifying moment where he'd woken up and found himself in the Psych offices, having apparently spent the night spooned with Woody, of all goddamned people, and with absolutely no idea how he'd gotten there. Even now, after all had been solved and explained and every moment accounted for, he felt himself tensing all over again.

"Shhh… Carlton, it's okay." Her fingers continued rubbing small circles. "It's over," she murmured, as if she had a window straight into his thoughts. "You're okay." The circles continued and unless he was losing his mind, he could swear her fingertips were making brief forays into his hair. "You didn't actually lose control—you were coerced into it."

"But I should've been aware enough to realize someone had spiked our drinks."

"How could you?"

"I—"

"Carlton, you're a great cop—but you're also human. Cut yourself some slack."

"I can't, O'Hara—"

"Try." No mistake about it, her voice was even closer, so close, he could almost feel the brush of her lips against his ear, and her fingertips were most assuredly in his hair, massaging his scalp in a hypnotic, almost sensual rhythm. That fist tightened its hold on his gut, making him shift restlessly on the sofa. Trying to move away? Or get closer?

_Don't answer that._

"I'm glad you've let your hair grow out some. It suits you."

His tongue felt thick and clumsy, seemingly incapable of wrapping itself around the simple "Thanks," he finally managed to utter.

Long moments passed as she continued to massage his temples and scalp, pausing only to switch the teabag on his eye for a fresh one. When she resumed the massage, she shifted her hands so her thumbs rested on his temples, her fingers curving to press into the knotted muscles at the base of his skull. As painfully aware as he was of her closeness, he also felt an undeniable sense of peace and relaxation begin to flow through him, leaving him loose and liquid. He might have even drifted off a bit, a feat he might have considered impossible an hour before. Through that hazy fog somewhere between awake and asleep, he heard her voice.

"I was relieved, Carlton."

This time the soft tone was tinged with something so painfully sad, he nearly sat up, the instinct to take her into his arms nearly overwhelming. He forced himself to remain still, however, sensing she had more to say. He also knew she was aware he was fully awake, but understood she might not feel able to speak so freely if she had to face him.

"I like him so much—even love him on some level—but when he couldn't immediately answer me when I asked him if he really wanted to move in together, the first thing I felt was relief. And then he asked me if I was disappointed in him and God, _no_, I wasn't, but I could tell, he was disappointed in himself. That he couldn't be that guy. And I could see the fear, too, that maybe, he wouldn't ever be able to be that guy.

"And then, just like you guessed, he started joking. Turned it around on me, saying I was the one who didn't want him moving in, that I was secretly a hoarder and all of the typical stream-of-consciousness Shawn-isms that you might expect. I get that he was attempting to shift the spotlight from himself and that part of the blathering is his way of parsing out his true emotions, but why couldn't he just… _say_ what he was thinking?"

Hell with it. Carlton gently grasped Juliet's hands, stilling them enough for him to sit up. Dropping the used teabag into the dish containing its twin, he stood, pulling her to sit in his recently abandoned spot on the sofa.

"Where's your wine?"

Eyes closed, as if she just couldn't face him yet, she waved toward the kitchen. In the neat, twilight-lit room he found a small rack on the counter with a selection of reds while in the refrigerator, a pair of bottles of white rested on a shelf. Feeling an earthier red was called for, he swiftly uncorked a bottle and brought it back into the living room along with a pair of goblets discovered in one of the glass-fronted cabinets. After pouring them each a generous measure, he took a glass and pressed it into her hand, wrapping her fingers around it so she wouldn't have to open her eyes until she was ready.

"The easy assumption is that guys like Shawn see commitment as a trap, but that's not true. At least, not where he's concerned." He stared down into his wine as he spoke, the liquid glowing a deep ruby in the low light of the room.

"What is it then?"

He shot a sidelong glance her direction, noticing that while her eyes remained closed, she'd obviously taken a sip of the wine, a small claret drop clinging to her lower lip. As he watched, her tongue emerged, sweeping across her lip and making him grateful her eyes remained closed.

"Strange as it might sound, commitment, for someone like Shawn, means admitting weakness. Saying he wants to live with you, to share his day-to-day life with you on such an intimate level, would mean admitting to a measure of dependence on you. He's no longer just Shawn—he's part of Shawn and Juliet. For someone like him, who's fought so hard to forge an independent identity, it would be a difficult reconciliation." He hesitated, but told himself he was only being completely honest with her. "Maybe an impossible one."

Finally she blinked, her eyes slowly opening and closing and that, combined with the dim, intimate light surrounding them, brought to mind visions that he had no damned business entertaining. Not about his partner and friend. Not about a woman who was taken.

"What does it say for me, then, that I was relieved?"

"That on some level you understand that about him? That you wouldn't want a partner to take that step unless they're all in. No hesitation." He took a long drink of wine and turned to refill his glass, ignoring the voice in his head that said two liquor-fueled escapades in one week were two too many.

"What about you, Carlton?"

"What about me?" He held the bottle up, tipping it over her extended glass.

"What does commitment mean to you?"

A humorless chuckle escaped. "Well, considering I spent two years trying like hell to fix an irretrievably broken marriage, one might argue that I see it as a safety net. That I was too fucking scared to let go even though I knew I should."

Juliet's voice was gentle. "Or one might argue that you really loved your wife."

He sighed. "That's a lovely thought, Juliet, but if it was true, would I have cheated on her?"

"Extenuating circumstances," she replied without missing a beat. "And I repeat, you're human. Under normal circumstances most bodies crave contact—when you work in a job like ours, it almost becomes an imperative. We need the affirmation of something good and real and alive." Her voice dropped, taking on a husky, sleepy quality. "The fact you held out as long as you did—that says a lot about you."

To Carlton, it felt as if the air around them was now simmering with the same live-wire tension he'd fought so hard to keep banked all evening.

"I like commitment," he found himself saying. "Crave it, actually. I draw strength from knowing I have someone to care for. To protect. To… love," he admitted quietly, hardly believing that he'd uttered the words out loud. Damned alcohol. Didn't stop him from gulping down the remainder in his glass and pouring another, though.

"Carlton?" He forced himself to meet her gaze, luminous in the shadowed half-dark of the room. "What if the person you're committed to derives the same enjoyment and strength from caring about and protecting you?"

"That's what makes it work." He couldn't keep looking at her. He could be honest with her, but he couldn't let her see the whole truth behind his words and he knew if he looked at her, she'd be able to see every damned thing. Each word emerged slowly, weighted with the emotion he was too damned close to letting completely out. "True commitment's not a one-sided thing. It can't be and survive."

Suddenly, the wine glass he'd been clutching for dear life was gone, replaced by her hand.

"Juliet—don't." Even so, his fingers curled around hers, enveloping her hand with his. "I can't—"

Her head was bowed, her gaze seemingly fixed on their intertwined hands. "Why not?"

"Because I'm damaged goods. With a bad track record." He swallowed hard. "Because Spencer was always there. And always intrigued you. And whatever his issues with commitment, the man honestly loves you."

"And you?"

Him? As she'd made a point of reminding him, more than once, today, he was only human. And he was tired of fighting. Especially since she seemed to genuinely need some sort of reassurance from him. He knew she would never intentionally use him to soothe her ego—that this was more about her knowing there was more. Needing the facts. Digging to get the entire story. They were so alike in that way—relentless until they got everything needed to move forward.

Emptying his clip in Spencer's general direction suddenly seemed a hell of a lot more appealing. Admittedly, he could sympathize to a certain degree with the man—the utter terror inherent in that sort of commitment but at the same time, that he'd done this to Juliet with one stupid, subconsciously motivated, asshatted move…

Tugging on her hand, he brought her with him until they were propped against the throw pillows, her head on his chest.

"Okay, I need you to stay quiet and listen to me because this may be the only time you'll ever hear me say this. Make no mistake, if the opportunity presents itself and the circumstances are right, I'll say it until you're sick to death of hearing it but until then, this is it. Okay?"

He waited for her nod, the smooth strands of her hair stroking his neck. One hand protectively cupped over her head, the other resting on her waist, he quietly said, "The clock tower."

It was cryptic, perhaps, but as attuned as he was to her responses, he could sense the silent question surrounding them was based not so much in confusion at his statement as in wonder at what might follow. "I have never in my life been so angry or so scared as that night. I went for you not just because you're my partner, but because it was _you_, Juliet. The only thing I knew in that moment was that I had to get to you, I had to protect you, and I was _damned_ if I was going to let you die."

The hand resting on her waist trembled with the remembered fear and adrenaline. "In all the world, you are the person I care for the most, that I cherish the most, that I need to protect, that I—"

_Love._

But he wouldn't say it out loud. Not yet. It wasn't fair to lay that on her while she was dealing with the maelstrom of emotion from Shawn's declaration and subsequent retraction. Besides, given what he'd already said, she knew.

"Can I talk now?"

His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he nodded. What would she say now? Outside of maybe "Get the hell out, you whackjob."

"Shawn knows."

_Not_ what he expected her to say.

"Come again?"

She propped herself up on one elbow, the better to look into his face. "He told me, after the clock tower, that he'd told Gus the only way he couldn't be there for me was if he knew Gus was."

"Okay." Unable to help himself, he reached up and brushed wayward strands of hair back from her face.

"But he said that wasn't completely true. He was relieved that Gus was there, sure, but he said that in all honesty, he knew I'd be safe because you were coming for me." The hand on his chest toyed with a button on his shirt, sliding it in and out of the hole, the short edges of her nail inadvertently scratching against his skin and making him shiver. "He said," she added, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "if there was any one thing he knew, it was that you would just as soon die yourself as let any harm come to me."

While he still firmly believed the psychic act was a load of crap, Carlton still couldn't restrain the chill that ran through him at the knowledge of Spencer's prescience.

"It left him sort of ashamed, you know."

"Shawn's not capable of shame," he scoffed, but his tone was as much curious as disdainful.

"Well, he did ask Abigail if there was a bomb before he went into the water after her."

The cop in him was too deeply ingrained to pull judgment. "Seems like a perfectly reasonable question."

"Yeah, but what he's ashamed of is that if she'd said yes, he's not sure what he would've done."

Recalling how Shawn had immediately bolted for the bank once he discovered Gus was being held hostage, Carlton felt compelled to defend the guy. "He would have gone after her."

"Oh, I think so, too."

"But…" Because there was a definite "but" hanging between them.

"He said for a second… just a split second…" Her voice was hesitant, but her gaze remained firmly locked with his as she said, "He wasn't sure."

"Oh."

Once again, he felt an unfamiliar pang of sympathy for Spencer. That had to be hell to live with—but at the same time, Abigail had to have recognized it, given that she'd broken up with him in the wake of the experience. Guster had mentioned, in one of his too-gossipy moments that tended to drive Carlton nuts, that Abigail admitted she had a lot she wanted to accomplish and she couldn't do any of it if she was dead. So clearly, on some level she'd sensed the hesitation and on another, had recognized that for her part, she didn't fully trust Spencer to come for her every time.

"Yeah." Her gaze finally dropped, focusing on the button with which she'd resumed toying. "There's one more thing."

He put his hand over hers, stilling the movement and at the same time, establishing that most basic connection, their linked hands and resting over his heart.

"What is it?"

"He said—" She took a deep breath. "He knew you wouldn't hesitate. That… you didn't hesitate. Not for a second."

"No."

What else could he say? He wouldn't lie to her and he wouldn't sugar coat it with any "Oh, I only did what anyone would do," bullshit. Because he wouldn't. Truth was, if it was anyone but Juliet, he would think twice, too. For him, she came first.

"Oh, Carlton—"

He trailed his knuckles along her cheek. "It's okay, you know."

Her eyes were sad. "Is it?"

"Right now, it kind of has to be, doesn't it?"

"Maybe not." She rolled more completely over him, making him suppress a groan.

"Juliet—"

"Shh…" One finger rose to his lips, making him catch his breath. "Your turn to stay quiet, okay?" She waited until he nodded. "You're right in thinking I'm not a hundred percent sure how I feel. And that I have a lot of… stuff to resolve. But I think…" She pressed her lips together, as if trying to form the words. "I think the reason I was relieved about Shawn retracting his offer to move in together was that it meant… I wouldn't have to make that choice. To put him first." The deep breath she took pressed her breasts into his chest, making him catch his breath. "Ahead of you."

_Oh, hell with it._

His hands rose to her shoulders lifting her slightly. "Juliet?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to be human now, okay?"

"Oka—" she began, the end of the word muffled as Carlton pulled her head down, covering her mouth with his.

There were several factors playing into making this one of the most mind-bending kisses he'd ever experienced. One was that despite popular opinion, he was actually more experienced than most would imagine. Two, he was of the firm belief that outside of engaging in the actual deed, the single most erotic physical contact in the world was a kiss, in all its forms and iterations, so when given the opportunity, he tended to spend a lot of time engaged in that particular activity. And three, for God's sake, it was Juliet.

Juliet, in whose hair his hands were twisted as he tilted her head back, trailing kisses along her neck. Juliet, whose hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt, her teeth nipping his earlobe before her tongue dragged along the incredibly sensitive underside of his jaw, making him tense beneath her. Juliet, who tasted of red wine and candlelight and dark nights.

_Juliet_.

_Juliet. Jesus Christ, this is Juliet. And she's not really yours to do this with. _

_Yet._

Oh, this was going to have to be filed under the heading of most incredibly selfless and quite possibly stupid acts he'd ever committed. With more than a little effort, he dragged his mouth from hers, sucking in air and trying to remember how to think. "Juliet—" When her hands kept moving, pushing his shirt open and scratching her nails down his chest, he shuddered, feeling his resolve weakening, but from somewhere deep within that iron-clad code of conduct that was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes, he found the will to grasp her hands. He was not, however, strong enough to move them completely from his bare skin, reasoning that who knew when he'd feel her touch like this again.

And also, that he was only human and _damn_, but her hands felt good.

But—

"We can't." Damn, but his voice had gotten higher in pitch. Or, rather… it was Juliet, sliding off to one side, but still obviously as unwilling to lose all contact as he was, given how one hand remained firmly planted on his chest.

"No, dammit, we can't." Now _that_ was his voice, patented aggravated growl and all.

"Carlton…"

"Sorry." He closed his hand over hers, holding it tight. "I should never—"

"Don't you _dare_ say you regret this. Or that we shouldn't have done this." Angry tears turned her eyes a brilliant pale blue and left him feeling like pond scum that she'd think that, even for a second. Even so, he wasn't prepared to let himself off the hook so easily.

"Dammit, Juliet, the last thing you need is a second alcohol-fueled incident completely screwing with your head—"

"Are you drunk?"

"No." The initial slight buzz from the wine had worn away within 1.7 seconds of that first kiss..

"Are you going to remember this in the morning?"

He felt his eyebrows hovering in the vicinity of his hairline. "Are you kidding me? I'm going to remember this the rest of my _life_."

"Then you're already one up on Shawn." She pushed herself up to a sitting position, shoving her hands through her hair. Her skin was flushed, her lips more than a little swollen, and he tried desperately to recall what the weather forecast was for the next few days because she might need to wear a turtleneck to cover the love bites he could see forming, even in the dim light. Actually, what was the probability of a freak snowstorm hitting Santa Barbara in the next hour, trapping them long enough for him to mark every inch of her?

_Not helping, Lassiter. Make yourself actually useful, why don't you?_

With a sigh, he reached over to the coffee table and picked up one of the discarded tea bags. Closing the distance between them, he gently pressed it to the worst spot on her neck.

She tilted her head back, ostensibly to give him better access, but the action allowed her gaze to meet his. "I'm the one who should be apologizing, you know?"

"Why's that?" Now that he knew what it was like to touch her, he couldn't seem to stop. Even if it was on the surface, a completely innocent act, like threading his fingers through her hair to hold her head steady. Or when her hand rose to hold the tea bag in place, using his newly freed hand to trace the outline of her face. Almost like a sickness.

"I'm the one who's involved and who has questions and doubts and now—" She waved one hand helplessly. "And you don't have any doubts and it would be so easy."

He shook his head, feeling on firmer ground. "But that's the thing—you don't do this because it's easy. You do it because you have to. Because there's absolutely nothing else you can see yourself doing. Because there's no one else you can see yourself with."

She stared up at him, a look in her eyes that let him know she was so close. And if he wanted, all he had to do was make one move—one more kiss or even just say something—

"You're not there yet, Juliet."

That was _not_ the thing that would tip the scales in his favor, dammit. But it was the right thing to say. Christ, but the high road sucked.

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he stood and quickly grabbed his holster and gun from the table on his way to the front door, buttoning his shirt haphazardly. "I've still got the spare key to your car. I'll have a uniform bring it by later—tell them you weren't feeling well and I drove you home."

He was almost out the door when her voice stopped him. "Are you there, Carlton? Are you absolutely sure?"

He turned to look at her, huddled on the sofa, clutching the tea bag to her neck. Finally, he said simply, "Clock tower," and gently closed the door behind himself.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> This one got a bit away from me and took an unexpected left turn to Albuquerque. So given the way it ended, it's possible there might be another chapter. Or not. We'll see.


	2. Chapter 2

Carlton and Juliet continue circling around each other and their feelings. This time, the shoe's on the other foot. SPOILERS for Ep 6.03: "This Episode Sucks" **psych**belongs to TPTB and USA Network and anyone else who has a legit claim. Certainly not I. No infringement intended.

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><p>"Damn, that must be one hell of an appointment Lassie's got." Shawn's voice contained its usual mocking edge touched with a hint of genuine curiosity. "Whaddaya think? A colonoscopy? What else would make him look that happy?"<p>

"My money's on a weapons exhibit," Gus chimed in.

"How about you, Jules? Any guesses?"

Juliet barely heard their banter as she stared at her partner's dark-suited form moving purposefully—some might even say jauntily—down the hall towards the front doors. Usually only apprehending a perpetrator brought that sort of lilt to his step. And to have left his desk in such a state of disarray, with crumpled sheets of paper and pencil shavings scattered across the normally pristine surface? To say that was unlike Carlton would be understating it. The man noticed when the cleaning crew failed to put his blotter back in the precise place he preferred. Once upon a time, he used to complain—bitterly and somewhat loudly—but after more than a few eye-rolls and chiding comments from her about people doing their jobs to the best of their ability and that he wasn't some special snowflake who needed to be catered to, and by the way, why don't you just _chill_, Carlton, he'd resorted to simply heaving a deep sigh before moving the blotter into place with a pointed stare in her direction, as if to prove that yes, he too, could be flexible.

Lately, he'd even quit with the sighing, simply moving the blotter with a small smile her direction before settling into his work.

"I think Jules thinks it's the release of the new taco combo at El Marimbe, right?"

"What?" she finally said, vaguely aware that Shawn and Gus had continued with their banter while she'd been lost in thought, staring at Carlton's desk and seeing again, that small grin on his face as he'd passed them.

"I said, new taco combo, El Marimbe, and they've got karaoke on Wednesday nights, so maybe if we're lucky, we'll get to see Lassie doing his best rendition of 'La Cucaracha.'"

"I'd say that would be _un_lucky, Shawn. Have you heard the man try to sing 'Happy Birthday?' It's an affront to sound."

"That's just because he's not properly lubed. Tequila makes everyone sound great. You in, Jules?"

No. Shawn and Gus after Mexican were no one's friends. Add tequila to the mix, and no thank you, very much.

"You guys go on ahead," she replied. "I'll, um, catch up with you later."

Shawn remained as unflappably accepting as ever. "Okay." He started to lean in, but stopped as she took a step back.

"Shawn—you promised."

"Sorry. I keep forgetting." He retreated, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It's not like it isn't public knowledge now."

"Still, I work here."

He put on a mock-affronted look. "So do I."

"Yeah, well this isn't your primary workplace."

"So you saying we can neck at _our_ offices?"

"Not if I'm there," Gus protested.

"But that's what makes it _fun_."

She sighed. "Shawn—"

He held his hands up in surrender. "I know, I know—sorry. Just jerking your chain a little." He leaned in again, but only close enough to whisper. "I do miss you when you're not around, Jules. Never doubt that."

Dammit. Shawn didn't often relax out of his full-on court jester mode, but when he did, it allowed the sincerity to shine through and that—_that_ made him damn near irresistible. "I know." She smiled, trying to convey a promise for later in the glance she sent him. "Me too."

Yet she couldn't shake the feeling that she wanted him and Gus to _leave_, already. She had things to do and couldn't accomplish any of it with them around.

"Call me when you're done?"

"I will." Seeing that the bullpen was mostly deserted, she relaxed and reached out to give his hand a brief, hard squeeze. Maybe not a kiss, but it would have to do.

With Shawn and Gus finally out of the building, she tried to turn her attention to the paperwork on her desk, but she kept getting glimpses of the chaos of Carlton's desk from the corner of her eye, distracting her yet again. He'd been _so_ intent, scribbling on page after page, sharpening his pencils with vicious swipes of that deadly blade he usually kept hidden in his desk. She knew it had something to do with their most recent case and his near-miss with Marlowe. Probably a statement to be used against her in court.

After all, he'd really liked her, but to find out that she'd been stealing blood and had all but been an accessory to murder? Her heart constricted. Poor Carlton.

_Really? Poor Carlton? You're really going the concerned partner route?_

She shook off the accusatory voice and stood, anxious to be moving. The inner voice was less likely to pipe up if she was actively busy. And she had to shake the damned voice off—concerned partner was all she _could_ be. By her own rules and the unspoken truce she and Carlton had come to, in the wake of their unexpected encounter a few weeks back. Discovering the depth of his emotion had shocked her—and at the same time, hadn't. He'd all but said he loved her. Had said it, as much as he was able, without using the actual words that would irrevocably change everything. But in the words he had used and in his kisses, she'd felt the emotion he kept so tightly reined.

Emotion she'd been unexpected witness to the other night—when they'd interrupted his encounter with Marlowe. She'd managed to pretend the same shock the others had expressed at the sight of Carlton's military garters, but ridiculous (and honestly, kind of endearing) as those had been, in truth her shock had been reserved for everything else about his appearance. The hair mussed from its customary neat style, the flush streaking across his high cheekbones, the deep open vee of his shirt, revealing the chest that she herself had caressed just days before, but what had struck her more than anything was the glazed, heated expression turning his eyes a deep, intense blue. At the same moment as she understood yet again just how much he'd held back with her, she experienced a deep, primal jolt that had left her shaken for hours afterward. The realization that this man, when allowed, would be crazy passionate and completely uninhibited.

_Really? You're still trying to play that this surprises you? God, you're stupid. Or being deliberately obtuse. I vote for deliberately obtuse, because I know you were there the other night. You know? Hands in his shirt? Tongue down his throat? And would have gladly gone further if only—_

Okay, okay—she'd also been shocked at finding him like that—with someone else. But she'd fought back the unreasonable surge of anger that had swept over her at the sight of Carlton, hovering close to Marlowe, arm protectively around her at every possible moment. Her rational brain understood that he was perfectly entitled to follow through on an attraction to another woman. She had no claim on him. None. She herself was taken and he'd been a complete gentleman, understanding that she needed time. That she needed to follow through on the attraction that had dogged her and Shawn for five years, constantly thwarted by an unbelievable string of bad timing. And now the timing was right. For her and Shawn.

That's what her rational brain said.

Her irrational brain, on the other hand, was _righteously_ pissed off at what could only be called another incidence of bad timing and furthermore, hadn't been at all sure who she wanted to smack more: Marlowe or Carlton. For a multitude of vastly different reasons, none of which she cared to examine too closely.

Her irrational brain had also breathed a massive sigh of relief the moment Carlton had snapped the cuffs on Marlowe's wrists, turning her over into Juliet's custody before tersely stating that it was now her case and he'd be at home if he was needed to give a statement.

Her rational brain had then wanted to smack her irrational brain for being such a selfish, self-centered bitch.

Out of habit she began to reach for her weapon, intent on disassembling it, before she stopped herself. Everyone knew this was her stress-reliever. But what did she have to be stressed about? Nothing. Zip. Zilch. They'd solved the case and the perp was even sympathetic, driven to desperate acts by the heartlessness of Big Insurance and was finally getting the medical help he needed. Everything was just peachy, wasn't it? Outside of poor Carlton having to deal with Marlowe's betrayal. The knowledge that she'd only come onto him for his blood type. She hadn't really liked him that much, had she? No, not at all. So other than honest worry for Carlton's well-being she had no reason to want to take her weapon apart and put it back together, attempting to best her personal record. Nope. No reason at all.

What else could she do, though?

Once again, the littered surface of Carlton's desk caught her eye. Okay, then. There was something she could do—clear his desk off. She was just being a good partner, right? Right. Gathering the crumpled yellow sheets, she told herself she wasn't snooping, not really. It was just accidental that she happened to catch a word or two, here and there, written in the distinctive block script Carlton preferred.

_Marlowe…_

_My dearest…_

_We have…_

_I'll wait…_

No. He couldn't possibly mean… No. Balling the sheets together, she tossed them into the nearest recycling bin. After storing the knife back in its usual drawer and straightening his blotter, she returned to her desk, determined to complete her work. Yet the words kept echoing in her mind, forming a picture that she'd known, deep down, was more accurate.

Yes, he'd been devastated at Marlowe's initial deception and subsequent incarceration, but there'd been something more.

Giving in to impulse and hating herself for it, she stood once more and retrieved the legal pad from his desk. Using a pencil, she skimmed lightly over the surface of the page, the indentation of Carlton's handwriting gradually revealing itself.

_My dear Marlowe_

Okay, this had been bugging her since the first moment they'd encountered her, but seriously, what kind of film noir, femme fatale name was that anyhow, she thought, not for the first time. That couldn't possibly be her _real_ name.

_Temper, temper…_

She snarled at the internal voice.

"Detective O'Hara? Everything all right?"

Startled, she glanced up then smiled at McNab's concerned expression. "Sorry. Needed to clear my throat."

His blessedly trusting face revealed no sign that he thought she was completely full of shit. "Some tea might help with that."

"No thanks, Buzz, I'm fine."

"A lozenge, maybe?"

"_Buzz_—"

"Right, fine. Sorry."

She waved off his apology, making a mental note to bring him some doughnuts or something to apologize for being so cranky, before returning her attention to the legal pad. She continued skimming the pencil lead over the page, an unpleasant chill creeping higher up her spine as each word was revealed.

_My dear Marlowe,_

_I will wait for you these next six to eighteen months._

_See you next Wednesday._

Today was Wednesday. Visiting day at the prison. _That_ had been his appointment. He wasn't devastated. He was sad they couldn't be together, sure, but overall, he was… expectant. He was… happy.

She sat straighter in her chair. He was happy. Blinking back the unexpected sting of tears, she ripped the page from the legal pad and fed it into her shredder before returning the pad to his desk. She'd only just resumed her seat when he came striding into the bullpen, a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

He was happy.

She should be happy for him. They both had what they wanted. More or less. She had Shawn and the relationship they were building, while Carlton, for the first time in too long, had… hope.

"O'Hara?"

She glanced up to find Carlton staring at her. "Yeah?"

"Did you do this?" he asked with a wave at his clean desk.

"Um, yeah… I hope you're not upset, I just know how much you like your desk a certain way and you left in such a hurry and—"

"Thank you."

She blinked as she watched him sit down, running his hands over the blotter but not even adjusting it the slightest amount. "Excuse me?"

"Thanks—I appreciate the gesture. I owe you a coffee."

No questions or suspicious accusations. Just simple gratitude and as he leaned back in his chair, a contented, secret smile.

He was happy.

She should be happy.

So why did she feel so miserable?

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Okay, not only did this story spawn a second chapter, there's a third brewing, since we have to see Carlton's side of this little bit of unexpected fall-out. Thanks so much for the reviews!


	3. Chapter 3

Carlton and Juliet continue circling around each other, their feelings, and some spectacularly bad timing. SPOILERS for Ep 6.03: "This Episode Sucks" **psych **belongs to TPTB and USA Network and anyone else who has a legit claim. Certainly not I. No infringement intended.

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><p>Every Wednesday, like clockwork, his partner would show up at work and go about her business in an oddly subdued manner. Oh, on the surface she smiled and chatted, tracked down clues and arrested perps; traded cheerful banter, as was usual, with those two idiots, one of whom she happened to be dating—and really, as observant as Spencer was, why hadn't he, at least, noticed her shifts in mood?<p>

Maybe because he wasn't her partner. And didn't have the history with her Carlton did. Admittedly, it had even taken him a few weeks to notice the pattern. Mostly because on Wednesdays, he'd show up at work in an oddly ebullient mood. Nothing would faze him, outside of the perps who had the nerve to disrupt his Wednesday afternoons and potentially make him late for his standing date with Marlowe. So it wasn't until the third one that he began to pick up on the cool glances. On the fourth, he realized that the reason no one else was picking up on her subdued mood was because she was her normal self with them while reserving terse, almost monosyllabic responses for him. True, once upon a time he might have welcomed such a partner, but all of that had changed six years before, when Juliet O'Hara had breezed into his life, bright, cheerful, dedicated, and committed to becoming the best partner he'd ever had.

Part of him, when the light bulb finally went off, felt a little frisson of satisfaction. He wasn't proud of it, but neither would he deny that it felt a _little_ good to see her reacting so viscerally to the thought of Marlowe being in his life. But when, on the fifth Wednesday, she actively attempted to keep him from his appointment at the prison by insisting they follow one of the more hare-brained leads Spencer had ever concocted, he knew things had gone too far. In the past, he'd been able to count on her to be a voice of reason—able to parse out which of Shawn's leads were worth following, even if he thought they were idiotic—but this lead, so patently outrageous that Vick, Henry, McNab, and even Guster had all stared at Shawn like he'd grown a second head, had Juliet lunging after it with the rabid intensity of a starving dog scrounging for scraps.

He at least managed to refrain from voicing the thought that Juliet's insistence on following the lead wouldn't happen to have anything to do with the fact that it would send them to Gibraltar Reservoir, a nice ninety minute drive one way, deep into the Los Padres National Forest, now would it?

Frankly, he was more than a little insulted. Even before they expressed any feelings beyond friendship for each other, Juliet had always been one of his staunchest defenders as well as respecting his intelligence and the abilities that were so often overshadowed by Shawn's extraordinary skills. Yet at the same time, had never been afraid to call him on the carpet when she thought he was wrong, foolish or simply more stubborn than the proverbial jackass. In other words, she'd always been honest and it was that quality, more than any other, that had endeared her to him as a partner, as a friend—and more. So the fact that she was so blatantly lying cut painfully deep.

"All right, everyone, you have your assignments—let's see if we can wrap this one up by dinner. Detective Lassiter, a word, please?"

Carlton hung back, rolling his eyes as Shawn and Gus passed him, deep in discussion about dinner possibilities and whether or not Lucy Hwang's would deliver to the Blueberry if the case happened to run long. He nodded at Juliet, indicating that he'd join her shortly, sort of surprised he wasn't frozen into immobility, covered in ice chips from the stare she shot him as she walked past.

Closing the door, the chief turned to face him. "Any idea what the hell's going on with your partner?"

"Some," he replied neutrally.

She crossed her arms, eyebrows raised. "Is it anything you feel the need to share?"

"Nope."

"Is it something you can fix?"

And there was the sixty-four thousand dollar question, now wasn't it? "I don't know."

Judging by the expression on Vick's face, she was seeing something in his—something that had her sighing as she rounded her desk and resumed her seat.

"And here I thought you'd be the one all moody and depressed. I know how to deal with a moody and irascible Lassiter, but I'll be the first to admit that I haven't got the faintest clue how to deal with a moody and irascible O'Hara. Hell, I didn't even know she had those tools in her arsenal."

That made two of them, then. "I'll see what I can do." Because one thing he did know—this couldn't go on indefinitely. Someone—more likely multiple someones—were liable to get hurt. He paused, hand on the doorknob, and looked back at his boss. "Chief, why'd you think I was going to be the moody one?"

"Aside from the fact that you're you?" An unexpectedly gentle smile crossed his boss' face. "Carlton, I've known you longer than anyone else here. And I probably know you better than anyone other than your partner. I saw your face when you brought O'Hara down from that clock tower. And I saw your face when you administered that polygraph to Shawn. And I saw your face in the wake of Marlowe's arrest." She shook her head, the entirety of her body language expressing undeniable sympathy. "You, my friend, are stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place, aren't you?"

He took a deep breath, terrified that someone knew and grateful that if it had to be anyone, it was Karen Vick. "It wasn't supposed to be like this, you know."

"It never is." Her smile faded into a wistful expression that made him think maybe she understood, even more than he might have imagined. "You need to talk to her."

"I intend to." He started to turn the knob, then stopped once more. "We really don't have to follow that ridiculous lead, do we?"

Karen sighed and rolled her eyes. "No, of course not. I know you have an appointment to keep." Her raised eyebrow indicated that she knew the exact nature of his appointment and had from the beginning. "And you need to talk to O'Hara. The order in which those things are accomplished is entirely up to you. This case is all but done and the rest of us can cover it, so take the rest of the day. Take tomorrow, if necessary."

He nodded, for once not feeling the burning need to notch another case closure onto his record. This was more important. "Thanks."

Leaving the office, he strode past Juliet's desk with only a curt nod, knowing she'd be following. A fresh wave of annoyance stabbed him as he noted how she relaxed into her seat, relief rolling off her in palpable waves. Damn, he really should have seen this sooner. Then again, he wasn't all that certain she was even aware of what she was doing.

It wasn't until he took the turn leading them towards her house rather than out of town that her relaxed demeanor faded, by turns becoming confused, then angry, when she realized they wouldn't be following the lead after all.

"Carlton, what the hell—?"

He tightened his hands around the wheel. "I'm taking you home, Juliet."

"What? But the lead—"

"Is completely bogus and you know it. Moreover, Chief Vick knows it."

"I—"

Whatever protest she was formulating died as he pulled into her driveway and turned to face her. She slumped in her seat, the fight appearing to leave her and with it, revealing to him in the vulnerable curve of her neck and the bruised shadows beneath her eyes, the exhaustion she'd clearly been struggling to hide. His own anger and frustration receded to a dull ache allowing his words to come out far gentler than they might have even five minutes earlier.

"I never would have taken you for cruel, Juliet."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do." He exited the car and went to her side, helping her out. It was a sign of just how exhausted and defeated she was feeling that she didn't fight as he carefully led her to her front door, didn't resist as he took the keys from her hand and opened the door himself, didn't even give him one of the cool, disdainful looks she'd been getting so practiced at the last few weeks as he led her into the living room, sparing a glance at the sofa where so much had been revealed. Too much, maybe.

"I have to go now, but I'll be back later."

"Why?" Her voice was dull, her gaze opaque and unreadable.

"Because we need to talk." He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing the inevitable refusal she was formulating. "We do. And you know it. I'll bring Chinese for dinner."

Without another word, he turned and left. If Marlowe noticed anything amiss about him, she thankfully never let on, merely talking about her job in the prison library and the most recent update on Adrian's health.

After their too-brief visit and a promise of "same time, next week," accompanied by their matched hands against opposite sides of the glass, he headed back into town, stopping at his and Juliet's favorite Chinese restaurant. While he waited for their order to be filled, he mused on the fact that he didn't even have to think twice about what to order for Juliet, while he had no idea if Marlowe even liked Chinese. He and Juliet had a history. And he couldn't deny that part of him—even now—hoped they had a future. But a lot of pieces would have had to fall into precise place for that to ever happen and that was even _before_ Marlowe's appearance in his life.

Juliet answered the door even before his knuckles made contact. "Why did you say I was cruel?"

Okay then, they'd be getting the talk out of the way even before the egg rolls.

"Do you really have to ask?" He headed into her kitchen and deposited the bags on the counter, idly noting that pissed at him though she might have been, she'd still set the table and uncorked a bottle of wine. Such an inherently nice person, that what she was doing was almost beyond her own ability to ken. Maybe she really did have to ask.

"Juliet, I spent two years waiting for my wife to make up her mind if she wanted me. " Jerking his tie loose, he turned and leaned back against the counter, rubbing his hand along the tense muscles of his neck as he searched for the words. "Then I spent six years waiting for you to even _see_ me."

"Carlton, I—" she began, but he held up a hand.

"No—don't. I get it, Juliet—I always did. But see, here's the thing." Taking a deep breath he pushed off from the counter and began pacing the kitchen's confines. "While even now, I have to wait—six to eighteen months—there at least exists the possibility of a light at the end of the tunnel." He turned and met her stricken gaze head on. "I don't know what's going to happen with Marlowe—for all I know, once she's out, she'll decide that she wants more. For the first time in her life she won't be obligated to anyone or anything and that's got to be an intoxicating feeling. But for now—for right now—she wants me. She _likes _me. What the hell, Juliet—did you really expect me to wait around, like some lovelorn idiot, to see if you and Shawn work out for the long run?"

A flush stained her cheeks as a barely audible, "No," emerged. In the next moment, however, she straightened, her icy blue glare piercing the distance between them. "But I don't understand—how can you be with her? She's a convicted _criminal_, for God's sake."

"Who did what she felt she had to for her brother."

"Well, when I did what I felt I had to for my brother, I arrested him," she ground out.

"And I arrested Marlowe," he shot back. "Are you really trying to turn this into some sort of righteous pissing contest?" Frustrated, he shoved a hand through his hair. "Christ, Juliet, can't you just be honest about this? For both of us? Can you stand there and tell me, in all honesty, that if it was anyone else you'd be okay with this?"

"No!"

They stared at each other, the single world hanging between them, the truth trembling on the precipice. Her next words emerged just above a whisper, yet as usual, with her, he didn't even have to strain to understand. "I… I don't want to lose you, Carlton. Not when… when I've just found… you. Seen the you that would be part of you and me. And the worst part is, I know that's not fair."

Seeing her standing, so straight and proud, so determined not to break, broke something in Carlton, prompting him to reach out and take her in his arms. Burying his face in the hair she'd loosened from her habitual knot, he whispered, "First and foremost, we're partners and that won't ever change until the day some criminal scumbag shoots me or the day you want it to. And as for the other, I know you can't possibly know this about me, but when I love, I love forever. No matter what happens in the future, there's a piece of my heart that will _always_ belong to you and you alone."

Juliet's sigh teased the hollow of his throat with a warm caress, reaching around his neck and drawing him closer to her. Much as he wished they could stay just like this, maybe forever, he knew he had more to say. The most important part. "But Juliet, sweetheart—you and me—we both know it can't happen. Not now."

"I know." She drew back and looked up at him, her blue eyes clear and determined and heartbreakingly lovely. "But God help me because I know how wrong this is, but I just wish that for one night, we could be you and me."

God_damn_, but it was tempting.

Here she was, in his arms, barefoot, wearing ratty sweats and her beloved UM t-shirt, hair tumbling around her shoulders and a flush staining her skin from her cheekbones all the way down to the line of her clavicles. It would be ridiculously easy to fall into the fantasy of believing that she'd made it home from work ahead of him because he had some loose ends to wrap up and he'd told her to go on ahead. That she'd texted him with a request to pick up dinner, and they'd spend the evening together, chatting over wine and General Tso's chicken about cases and the new Japanese Garden that had opened and that they were planning on visiting on the weekend because they'd made a deal with each other—the nature of their work and the fact that they loved what they did demanded that they talk about it at home, but the weekends, unless they were caught up in a case, were for them alone.

In his mind's eye, he could even see the band on her left hand—she'd eschewed an engagement ring as impractical for their line of work, so he made up for it by giving her a diamond eternity band, the stones set in platinum so as to match the metal of the band she'd shyly asked if he would wear, knowing he wasn't one for jewelry beyond his watch and badge.

She would find out, late one night, how he'd been more than willing to wear a ring—he enjoyed running his thumb along the smooth metal at odd times, recalling the moment she'd slipped it onto his hand. Feeling her with him, every minute of every day.

The fantasy appeared so rapidly, so vividly clear and powerful, he knew it had been living in his subconscious for far longer than he would care to admit. Growing in intricacy with each new detail learned, each life or death experience they survived.

Giving into temptation, he slowly leaned forward and touched his mouth to hers in a gentle, heart-stopping kiss. Taking her by the hand, he led her into the living room and to her sofa, where he sat before drawing her down, close to him. Briefly, his mind flashed to sitting like this with Marlowe while Juliet had stood before them, holding an evidence bag, her steely gaze darting to him as they'd waited for Marlowe's responses to her questions, before he dismissed it to the corner of his mind he kept reserved for Marlowe.

Quietly, he began talking, weaving a tale of a couple who'd met at work, the man, older, irascible, initially annoyed at the thought of a young, inexperienced partner but ultimately won over by her skill, her ability to solve cases and the way only she could charm him out of his bad moods. He recounted how both of them, determined to be professional, ignored the undeniable attraction that had existed between them from nearly the moment they'd met until one crucial life or death moment. Nearly having lost her to a madman, he determined he couldn't allow another moment to pass without confessing his feelings, and color him shocked when he learned that this brilliant, beautiful woman felt exactly the same way.

Carlton talked quietly through the night, allowing Juliet into the private world he'd built for them, exploring corners of it he hadn't even realized existed, her occasional questions and comments shaping previously unformed elements, like the location of their honeymoon (Alaska, since neither of them had ever gone and both wanted to) to the number of children (two: a boy and a girl because God help him, she though a little Carlton would be adorable). Together, they determined the best neighborhood to raise their family (schools were paramount and no cookie cutter sub-divisions because he'd be damned if he'd join a Homeowner's Association). They decided on their dream house (a sprawling vintage Craftsman) and the best dog to get (a Corgi, small enough to be manageable, but large enough to feel like a real dog). They discussed the things, both small and large, they were likely to argue about, even the most serious things, because they both well knew no relationship was perfect. They even determined, amidst quiet laughter, that if they ever had an argument so fierce she she felt the need to kick him out of the house, that McNab would be the likeliest candidate to have a sofa long enough on which to put him. And that twenty-four hours in McNab's relentlessly cheerful company would be just the icing on the punishment cake and would prompt him to return home, contrite and bearing flowers. Or a new Glock for her.

The only detail of their life left unspoken was the one they couldn't bear to state aloud but that nevertheless imbued every word spoken, every scene created. Their world, it was full and rich and so damn near perfect, and they knew it would only take one word—one glance exchanged in the dark, heated atmosphere—and the line they'd been so carefully skirting would be irrevocably crossed.

The watery light of dawn was beginning to ease its way into the room when Carlton finally stopped talking, his voice reduced to a hoarse raspy whisper. Rising from the sofa with a drowsy Juliet cradled in his arms, he carried her to her room, where he gently set her on the bed. He sat beside her, stroking her hair as her hand rose to cradle his cheek.

"Do you believe in soul mates?" he asked quietly, feeling the strain on his voice, but needing to say this one last thing.

"I didn't used to." Her eyes were heavy-lidded and dark with exhaustion. Another one of those images flashed in his mind—this is what she'd look like first thing in the morning—sleepy and warm in their bed. It would make getting to work on time a hell of a challenge.

"Me neither," he confessed. "But now..." He sighed. "Still, I can't help but feel that even if you're lucky enough to find your soul mate, karma's still a royal bitch. I have to wonder if I'm being punished for being such a jackass for so long."

A small smile twitched the corners of her mouth. "You don't have to convince me."

He leaned forward, touching his forehead to hers. "We're together every day. That's something, right?"

Her hands moved to his hair, holding tight enough for him to feel their trembling. "But will it be enough?"

"It's more than most people get, Juliet. We get to be part of each other's lives and important to each other in ways other people can't even begin to imagine and who knows? Maybe karma will look kindly upon us at some point. And maybe she's got other plans for us and we'll have to be happy with what we've got. Maybe this is why we're given the ability to love more than one person in our lifetimes "

She was silent for so long, he imagined she had drifted off, finally done in by the emotion of the last several weeks, but as he tried to ease back, he felt her hold tighten once more.

"Carlton?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I say it?"

Twin fists of fear and desire gripped his gut. "Juliet—"

"Just once—because maybe that's all we'll ever have."

Desire was winning out, hard and fast. But fear had him growling, "Don't you dare say it if you don't mean it. If you just feel sorry for—"

"I love you." She shoved at his shoulders, pushing him back far enough to meet his gaze. "I love you, Carlton Lassiter. No matter what happens, I will always love—"

Desire finally won, prompting him to cut her off, her words echoing through his entire body as his mouth took possession of hers. "I love you," he whispered fiercely between kisses, holding her so close he was afraid there would be no way to ever untangle their bodies.

Breathing hard, he pulled away, stroking a lingering hand along her cheek. "You're a part of me forever, you know."

Knowing he had to get out, _now_, before he gave completely in to the fantasy and had to suffer the subsequent heartbreak of their reality, he rose and backed away, maintaining the connection of their gazes until the last possible moment where he spun and strode away, refusing to look back until he was safely in his car and well away from her house.

* * *

><p>He and Juliet resumed their partnership with no visible damage. Wednesdays returned to passing like any other day, his visits with Marlowe still a bright spot in his week. And while he still thought Juliet was just this side of insane for being with Shawn, he couldn't deny that in his own bent, ADHD, nonsensical way, the man doted on her. And if their own friendship was altered, it was only in the subtlest of ways, a little deeper, a little richer, and maybe tinged with just a little sadness and longing that only emerged during moments of extreme exhaustion or strain.<p>

Time passed and the Christmas season arrived, bringing with it the obligatory office party, Secret Santa exchange, and whacked out case, this one involving a brownie baking, drug-smuggling Mrs. Claus at the Holiday Village. Her "special" treats had been mistakenly exchanged for a batch of untreated brownies—several kids had been hospitalized, but luckily, no fatalities had been reported and as it turned out, Mrs. Claus had been baking under duress, trying to eradicate a debt her low-life grandson had accrued with a local scumbag drug kingpin.

A side benefit had come from Guster and Spencer, ruled as always by their appetites, accidentally ingesting some dosed brownies. Their idiocy had been a beautiful thing to behold with the exception of Juliet's concern for Spencer, but wouldn't you know it, the moron had then gone and had the mother of all "psychic" visions while stoned out of his gourd, leading to their solving the case. Still, Carlton was going to enjoy calling him Timothy Leary for a while.

Arriving home, he was surprised to find a package waiting for him on his doormat. Normally, he would check it carefully, perhaps even call the bomb squad, except he immediately recognized Juliet's looping handwriting adorning the brown paper packaging. Dropping to his sofa, he considered it for a few moments. She had drawn him as her Secret Santa giftee and had given him a typically Juliet sort of gift, which was to say thoughtful and meaningful. And so what if Guster and Spencer didn't understand why Juliet would have given him the thirtieth anniversary edition DVD of _Grease_—he understood it. And loved her all the more for it. So what if no one else could know? He knew. And he hoped she knew.

But it still left the question of the package. He carefully pulled off the wrapping and opened the box beneath, revealing the most perfect miniature version of a California Craftsman bungalow. He lifted it out, admiring the details, then noticed it had a hinge on one side. Carefully, he lifted the lid and discovered a folded sheet of paper.

_Dear Carlton—_

_I wanted to give you this as your gift, but it was just too personal and I didn't feel the need to come up with an explanation. I found our house. It really does exist, here in Santa Barbara. Maybe it's a sign. And who knows, maybe someday, we'll have a shot at the real thing. But until then, I wanted you to have this. Keep it safe._

_For us._

_Yours always,_

_J._

A million thoughts swirling through his mind, he returned the sheet to its place, then carried it into his room where he carefully placed it on his bedside table. Propping the lid open once more, he reached into the table's top drawer and pulled out a small velvet box. Flipping it open, he studied the slim diamond band, sparkling, even in the weak winter sunlight. He tilted the box just far enough to read the entwined "C&J" etched into the platinum underside. Gently, he eased the velvet lid closed and just as gently, placed it in their home, alongside her note, closing the door on their story.

"A sign? I don't know about that. Maybe it's just karma having another huge joke at our expense. The bitch."

His words echoed in the empty room but if he listened very hard, he could almost, _almost_ hear the sound of children running down the hall, a dog's excited bark, and beneath it all, the laughter and exasperated voice more dear to him than any other.

_Maybe… someday._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong>Well, _that_ took an interesting turn! Even more so than I expected. Hopefully, I didn't go too off the reservation and the characters are still, yanno, in character. Thanks again for your reviews— I genuinely appreciate them.


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